


There Is No Tomorrow

by Desdemona



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdemona/pseuds/Desdemona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There comes a time when the lessons a man has to teach his child come soaked in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is No Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note that this story takes place directly after the Season Two finale. There are major spoilers. I highly suggest you watch or catch up before you read it.
> 
> Updated: cleaned up for y'all. Happy reading.

 They hadn't talked much, him and his dad. It was a trait they both shared: locking things up, barricading the door, and swallowing the key. So Stiles was more than a little thrown off when his dad came into the kitchen like he was on a mission, his steps heavy and authoritative in a way they hadn't been in a long time.

It made Stiles automatically sit up and pay attention. “Hey, Dad.”

“Stiles.” His dad paused at the table where Stiles had actual homework – not homework hiding research for once – spread out. A half empty bowl of cereal was congealing on the only part of table that wasn't covered in papers.

“You busy, son?” How his father managed to bury so much in three words was beyond him. But there was a lot there like _I don't want to bother you but this is kind of a big deal_.

Stiles put his pen down. “Nope.”

There was no subtext to the grimness in his dad's nod. “Good.”

 

* * * *

 

Half an hour later, they pulled into a familiar parking lot. Stiles couldn't figure out why it was familiar, outside of the fact that all parking lots were universally the same structure, and he wracked his brain, thinking until he saw the sign.

 _Beacon Hills National Park_.

“We have a park?” he said as he climbed out. Stiles stared and spun in a slow circle to see everything. There wasn't much to see though, just huge redwoods and a stretch of sidewalk that lead the way through an obviously man-made path right between the trees.

“Yep.” His dad's car door clicked shut, adding a tidy period to the sentence only to be followed by an almost reluctant, “You've been here before.”

“When?” Stiles craned his neck back, staring straight up the trunk of the massive tree next to him for an entire minute and a half before he realized that his dad hadn't answered.

He turned to ask again only to see the way his dad's mouth had strained at the corners and his eyes had that hazy sadness that Stiles couldn't stand to see.

Stiles clamped his mouth shut on and moved on. “Never mind. Why're we here? Are we going hiking?” He glanced at his Chucks, worn thin and comfortable but definitely hiking deficient. “Cause this is not hiking attire, Dad. Paul Bunyan is rolling in his grave.”

Stilinski cleared his throat. His voice was rough with an emotion that Stiles carefully chose not to name. “Bunyan was a lumberjack, son. Not a hiker.”

“Lumberjacks are just hikers with an ax. But hey, Johnny Appleseed was _just_ a botanist with an apple fetish.” This was familiar ground and he walked on it gladly, willing to say anything to put them back on track. “You start nitpicking now and you'll unwind my entire childhood, Dad. Or at least the first seven years.”

Stilinski made a strangled noise but at least the sadness cleared from his face. That was good enough for Stiles. Still, as his dad got closer, Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from checking on him.

“Follow,” Stilinski said once they'd hit the sidewalk. “Do not wander off.”

His dad headed down the path without another word, leaving Stiles to play catch up. It took a handful of steps for him to make up the distance, putting him close enough to tug on the flapping tail of the plaid shirt Stilinski wore.

In a blink, he saw a much smaller hand doing just that. Grabbing on. Tugging.

_Daddy, wait for me._

He blinked again and the image dissolved. It left him a step or so off though and Stiles mulled over it as they headed deeper into the park. There was an eerie silence, where even the birds – there should be birds, it was a park, there were always birds – were strangely mute.

In fact, the entire park was graveyard quiet.

They passed a few wooden benches and what looked like picnic tables that had begun to warp, either by rain or age. There was nothing else save the trees, the shrubs, and them. There wasn't a single soul for miles that he could see. Like the park had been cleared out.

Or worse.

Creeping worry eased up his spine, crawling along each vertebra until he was fighting off panicked shivers.

“Dad,” he whispered, his heart skittering up to rest in his throat. It didn't matter that it was noon, didn't matter that Scott could probably track his heartbeat to the North Pole and back, that they could find him, _them._ They were still alone.

“Here we go.” Stilinski's sudden stop overpowered Stiles' panic but only long enough for him to look around and really freak out. Somehow, they'd managed to find the most deserted looking section of the already dead empty park. It was just trees, as far as the eye could see.

Trees with... “Are those bullseyes?”

His dad took a deep breath as the papers with their bright red circles, pinned on several trees, flapped gently in a passing breeze. “Yes.”

Before Stiles could switch gears and process that new information, Stilinski pushed back his shirt to reveal his holstered gun. He unsnapped the holster to pull the gun free and the noise of it clearing leather was suddenly screaming loud in Stiles' ears.

“Dad, what are you...” he heard himself say from far, far away.

His dad set his jaw and finally met Stiles' gaze. And held out the gun, butt first.

“It's time you learned.”

 

* * * *

 

_I wanna be like you, Daddy. I wanna be just like you._

_A tired smile. What am I, son?_

_A hero!_

 

_* * * *_

 

“Are you insane?” Stiles expected his voice to be higher because there was screaming denial in his head but his voice was flat and desert-dry.

“No, Stiles, I'm not. Because in case you didn't notice, there's a lot of stuff going on these days.” A tic appeared in Stilinski's jaw, a sure sign that he was clenching too hard. “And if you insist on being in it, you're gonna know how to handle yourself.”

“I do,” Stiles snapped and eased back from the gun. The handle's dark gleam horrified him deep in his bones.“I don't need – I don't need that. I don't _want_ that.”

“Well, too bad.” Stilinski shoved the gun out further, sending Stiles in a panicked scramble to get away from it. “If you won't listen to me–”

“But I do, I mean I will. From now on, I swear, Dad, I swear. I won't go near anything. I'll stay away from the police station. I'll chain Scott up so he doesn't stumble onto a corpse or something, I promise.” He was babbling and couldn't stop because the panic was screeching in his head to escape.

“Stiles, will you just—”

“No, Dad, I ca— _whoa_.” The bush was unforgiving when he collided with it but the rock that his heel caught on was more so, upending him fully into the scraggly mess of brittle leaves and sticks. His body immediately sung with what felt like hundreds of tiny pricks.

His dad popped up beside the bush, his mouth flattened in annoyance. The gun was, thankfully, holstered again. Stiles almost felt bad but there was only bleak relief. He started to push out of the bush, only to slip and scratch himself up further. Stilinski sighed, wrapped a strong hand around his arm and hauled him up.

Once on his feet again, Stiles tried to pull his arm free to check the damage. But Stilinski's grip was unbreakable and Stiles stumbled along as his dad brought him back to where they'd been before.

This time, Stiles couldn't run when the gun came back out because Stilinski shoved it right into his hand. Basic human instinct kicked in because a gun was something you didn't let fall to the ground – you just didn't – and Stiles tightened his grip on the handle.

Stilinski let him go to gently place his hand over the shaking gun in Stiles' grip. Except, of course it wasn't the gun.

“Steady,” Stilinski said quietly. “Even with the safety on, you want a steady grip.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles whispered, lifting his gaze to his dad's tense face.

_Don't make me do this._

“Two hands,” Stilinski instructed, capturing Stiles' other hand and putting it in position. He completely ignored Stiles while stepping to the side of him, raising his hands, telling him how to aim, and preparing him for the way the gun's kick would hit him.

“ _Why._ ” Stiles threw the word out desperately when Stilinski paused for air. “Dad, tell me why. Are you....” A horrible thought struck him so hard that his arms dropped of their own accord, leaving the gun to hang heavy in his hand. “Are you dying?”

Stilinski went rigid, turning horrified eyes on Stiles. “No, son, no. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – I'm not dying. I'm not sick. I'm okay, I promise.”

The tension that had sunk into him at the thought of losing his dad to a hospital IV slithered out only to have anger take it's place. Hot with fury, Stiles threw his hands arms out, careless of the weapon still clenched in his hand.

“Then why are you doing this to me?” he shouted.

As if his words were the match to his father's kindle, Stilinski snapped right back, “ _Because I can't protect you._ ”

The words were like a bat to the gut. Stiles lost every drop of air in his lungs and there was no chance of getting it back because his father's fear was stark across his face. How Stiles hadn't noticed it before was a thought he'd pick to bloody pieces later but it was there now, in the new wrinkles around Stilinski's mouth, the heavy shadows beneath his eyes.

“What...” Stiles swallowed. “What do you mean, you can't protect me?”

His dad was statue still, watching Stiles with sad, tired eyes. “I mean one day, I won't be here. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Stiles? One day, it's going to be just you. You have to – you have to be ready for that, son.”

Stiles closed his eyes as his mind clicked the rest of it into place. It didn't take much to guess why his dad, the cool-headed, unruffled sheriff, had begun to worry. Because of Stiles. Because of Scott and definitely because of Derek. He could blame Matt but Matt was a product of a situation that they'd lost control of. Basically, mortality was staring his father right in the face and Stiles had practically invited it to stay over for dinner.

His dad was afraid and Stiles knew exactly who to blame.

A heavy silence settled between them, fraught with all the things that Stiles knew he should say like how he, _they_ , had it under control. Him, Scott, Derek, Allison and the pack. But those words also had no place here. It wouldn't erase his father's fear anyway. Just multiply it and what would be the use of that? Stilinski would turn into a shut in, collecting guns and boarding up the windows, waiting for the end to come.

Stiles opened his eyes. He couldn't breathe. Guilt had never felt like this before, like an actual part of him, as visceral and real as his heartbeat.

“Dad,” he started. Started but couldn't finish. “Dad.”

_I wanna be just like you, Daddy. I wanna be a hero._

_Just like you._

There was movement nearby a second before he was enveloped in warmth that smelled a little like clean laundry and a little like gun oil but mostly like home.

Stiles leaned into the hug and inhaled as deep as he could, taking in as much as his lungs would allow and holding his breath so it stayed there. So it would never leave him.

“Dad,” he said when he couldn't hold his breath any longer. But he faltered again. What could he do except apologize? Apologize for bringing this home and beg him to hold out a little longer. Because Stiles _did_ have an ace in the hole. He had three, actually. He had Scott, Allison and to a lesser extent, Derek.

He had the pack. Sort of.

But there was also the gun still clutched his hand, held awkwardly at his side. The reality was his dad's tight hug, the scent of their home clinging to his clothes and _sort of_ just wasn't going to cut it anymore.

Stiles took another deep breath, straightening out of the hug as he exhaled. His dad let him go reluctantly, going to wipe at his eyes but not before Stiles caught sight of the wetness at the corners.

Stiles dropped his gaze to the gun, running his finger along the sun-warmed barrel until his dad cleared his throat. He glanced up and met Stilinski's still damp gaze, where banked embers of fear lurked.

Stiles swallowed and turned to face the bullseyes. “Okay.” The word came out strong, surprising the both of them.

Stilinski released a small huff of relief, clear even to Stiles' human hearing. Then, “Two hands and brace your feet apart. Take off the safety. This sucker's got a kick like a mule.”

 

* * * *

_I'm not a hero, Dad._

_A tired, proud smile that digs in deep like a knife._

_You are to me, son._

 

* * * *

 

Later that night, with his homework nowhere near finished, Stiles answered his phone without looking at the number.

“Yeah?”

“Stiles?” Scott didn't sound panicked, which was good. But tension came through the phone along with the worry that wouldn't need much to become fear. “Hey, you think you can come over? To Derek's?”

The bottom of Stiles stomach dropped out.

“Why? What's up?” Stiles found himself wandering from the kitchen where he'd been struggling to think to where his father was passed out on the couch in the living room. His gun was in it's holster on the coffee table. Usually, his dad never left the gun out where Stiles could see it, as if by putting it out of sight, neither of them would think about the fact that Stilinski had to wear it in the first place.

Now, it lounged like a patient snake on the worn wood. Maybe as a reminder. Or maybe his dad had just been too tired to put it away before passing out. Either way, Stiles turned away and went to get a blanket while Scott almost audibly fidgeted on the line.

“Scott.” Stiles draped the blanket over his father's slumbering form. “Just tell me.”

Scott's heavy sigh was a burst of static against Stiles' eardrum, making him cringe. “We kinda found out that there's a pack in town. A pack of Alphas.”

“Wow, okay. We're definitely going to work on the _telling Stiles bad news before they become catastrophes_ thing.” He thumped the palm of his hand against his temple, quelling the surge of exasperation. “Really, really need to work on that, Scott.”

“I know, man, I'm sorry. Should have told you but you were, uh, upset about your Jeep.”

Stiles didn't even acknowledge that surprisingly delicate phrasing and the gentle prod of concern behind it, choosing to pretend that nothing was said in the first place. “Is there anything else, Scott? Anything at all? Did the Four Horsemen stop by to ask for directions? Did you run into freaking Dracula taking a midnight stroll?”

He shoved papers haphazardly along with his laptop into his backpack and was fighting the jammed zipper when Scott dropped his last bit of news.

“Peter's alive.”

Stiles heard the words, he knew he did but he had no idea how hearing those two words lead to him standing by the coffee table, staring holes into his dad's gun.

“How?” Even Stiles could hear how tight his voice is.

“Derek won't tell me.” Scott huffed in frustration. “But he's alive and apparently on our side.”

“That's like Satan offering you a handjob, dude.” Stiles leaned down, hand hovering over the gun. It seemed to beckon him, promising to even the playing field. Especially with Peter Hale back in the picture. “You politely say no and barricade yourself in a freaking church.”

“Yeah, well, what's that saying? About a good kind of evil?”

“Necessary evil,” Stiles corrected him absently, finally backing away from the gun's dark pull. It was plan B, if anything. Not plan A. Never plan A. His dad snuffled and shifted, burrowing into the blanket.

“Yeah, that,” Scott sighed. “I think Peter's ours.”

“Maybe.” Stiles went back to his bag on the table. He gave the jammed zipper one hard yank and it obligingly loosened, following it's path without further interruption. He did a little juggle of phone and bag until he got the bag looped over his shoulder and headed for the door. Before he made it though, he paused and backtracked to the kitchen.

He yanked open the drawer where they kept all the random odds and ends and located a pad of paper along with a pen.

“So Stiles? Are you coming?”

 _Hey, Dad,_ he wrote, ignoring Scott's worried rumbling. _Going to do some research with Scott. Phone's actually charged today. See you later. Please eat something that didn't moo once._

“Hey, Stiles. Dude, are you there? Are you driving?”

_Love you._

Stiles straightened, phone still pressed to his ear and hung the note on the fridge with a plastic badge-shaped magnet.

“Stiles!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm here.” Stiles stared at the note, twirling the pen. “I'll be there in a few.”

He clicked off and shoved the phone in his pocket before lifting his pen again.

_I need more lessons._

No plan was foolproof, after all.


End file.
